


The Crown Prince's Tale

by valiantfindekano



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 22:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1959186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantfindekano/pseuds/valiantfindekano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Fingon, Prince of the Noldor, successfully repelled the first dragon from his home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Crown Prince's Tale

Fingolfin was remarkably patient. He also continued to sip at his glass of wine, never letting it rest in his hand, which Fingon assumed was in order to disguise the tremors—both the movement, and the effect of the drink itself.

Fingon was going to drink of it too, once the healer finished dressing his neck and shoulder. It would take the edge off the wounds’ sting, and maybe allow him some of the sleep he’d been missing.

“You’ll have to say it sometime,” he prompted, raising his arm to facilitate the healer’s movements.

“What?”

“That you’re proud of me.”

The glare that Fingolfin gave was exactly what Fingon had been expecting, though he winced at the words that followed. “The fact that your brother saved people didn’t make him any less of a reckless idiot, Findekáno.”

“But you were proud of him, even when you were sad,” Fingon countered. “And I know you would act no different from us, had you been in his place or in mine.”

“I do not want my boys throwing their lives away needlessly. That is all.”

“None have done so yet.”

“Then do not be the first!”

The healer, though they did not speak Quenya (and must have held private thoughts about their use of it now, to judge by the look on their face when Fingolfin and his son had shifted tongues), was evidently grown uncomfortable, and the next bandage was pulled away from Fingon’s skin with a bit too much force.

“Ow! Mind the burns.”

Fingolfin drained his glass. “I’ve yet to hear your version of the story,” he admitted, “though I think I have heard enough to know the truth of it.”

Fingon grinned. “My version’s better.”

“Please, do not spare me details!” It might have been a joke, except for the warning in the High King’s eyes, a clear indication that Fingon shouldn’t censor his tale to make it appeal to his worried father.

“Very well,” Fingon agreed. “But save your criticisms for the end, else you’ll spoil my telling.”

* * *

Coming over the crest of the hill was like entering a new world.

Far to the north, the foothills of Thangorodrim were like this. Twisted black trees with reaching, scarred arms dotted the splintered rocks, and plants that ought to have been green were instead yellow and brown and dead. Rather than wholesome dirt, there was black ash coating the ground, and every time Fingon stumbled, it stained his hands a little darker.

He wondered if that was why orcs were so dark. Maybe the dust gathered in their scars until it became part of their skin, or maybe they ate it like a deer ate grass. Ate it when they were not eating the flesh of elves and men, that was.

This landscape before them now was wrong, however, because the stretch between Mithrim and Dor-lómin should have been green and lively, not a hell-scene transported from Angband. Distantly, there was smoke rising, and even a flash of orange—a fire still burned there.

Beside Fingon, one of the captains glanced about nervously. “Your Highness, it cannot be far from here. A beast as large as they say it is must be slow, and the ashes are still warm—“

They had the following facts: the beast was large enough to grab a fully-grown cow into its mouth and swallow it without needing to chew. Additionally it was armoured, like a lizard or a crocodile or one of those bizarre scaled rodents that scurried around the south of Aman. And finally, as if its size and its protective hide were not enough, it could eject a plume of fire from its mouth as easily as a fish could spit water.

Some said it was Morgoth himself come out to battle, but from all that Fingon heard, it was not very intelligent—so the rumour was probably not true. Still, whatever—or whoever—the beast was, it was dangerous.

They needed to be rid of it.

“Remember,” Fingon said, “it may still have a guard of orcs about it. Ride in pairs, if you are able, and be alert. Watch for my commands.”

He had not even finished his sentence when a roar burst from over the nearest hill, followed by tremors in the ground beneath their feet. A few of the horses rose up on their hind legs, their nostrils flared. Fingon threw up a hand— _steady._  The signal was passed through the ranks.

“Let us see our foe before we engage it,” he said, though he knew only the closest would hear his words. The other few hundred he rode with would have to wait and trust his judgement.   

A few seconds later,  _It_  appeared.

_It_  was not as big as Fingon had expected, but it was swift as it shot out from behind the shelter of the landscape. Its legs stuck out at odd angles, and it almost danced towards them, its head low to the ground. Even at a distance, they could see its wide red mouth twisted open in a grimace, tendrils of smoke rising from the corners.

That mouth, with its fire and gnashing teeth, had ruined entire towns.

Fingon gave another gesture. They’d split into four companies and surround it—the first would circle around and come up behind it, the second and third coming from the side and continuing to circle around and around, if possible (though Fingon anticipated they would be of least effect against armoured plate). His own guard, with the fastest, smartest horses, would do their best to draw its attention away from the rest.  

The question was only whether their horses would be quicker than the sprawling legs of the fire-beast.

Normally, Fingon liked to give rousing speeches before urging his men into battle, but there wasn’t time for it now. They had heard of the importance of their task already, when he briefed them on the possible formations to take, so when he spurred his horse forward, Fingon shouted only one word.

“ _Ñolofinwë!_ ”

He risked a look behind him as the ranks of his cavalry sprang forth. If a tear rose in his eye at the sight of hundreds of bright spears and blue banners, it would be easy to blame on the rush of wind in his face, and after only a second, his attention was back on the ground in front of him.

The fire-lizard had spotted their challenge. Its head swayed, glassy eyes rolling as it tried to follow the movements of all four companies. The head-on charge of Fingon’s guard posed the most immediate threat, however. As they approached, the lizard slowed, planting its scaly toes into the earth. It drew back its neck—it looked almost as if it was laughing, tossing its head backwards as if in delight—and a glow appeared in its chest. First red, then orange, and as it rose through the neck, it became yellow.

The line of horses split an instant before the beast ejected its stream of fire, though the blast of heat still touched Fingon’s face. He grimaced, leaning low over his horse’s neck, but he’d already fit an arrow to his bowstring. As the lizard looked for the fate of its prey, the guardsmen changed paths—

A volley of arrows sailed towards its head, and the company joined together again, rushing forward in a tight-knit cluster. Behind them, the beast screeched; momentarily it rose onto his hind legs as it prepared for pursuit.

That proved to be a mistake on its part. From each side came another volley of arrows, and though many bounced harmlessly off the golden-hued scales, others found their mark around the joints of the beast’s legs.

With a lashing tail, it took two bounds forward. But its neck snaked out, following the group of horsemen to its right, and once again a reddish glow began to rise in its chest.

_Too soon._  Fingon grit his teeth as he turned his company back over the smoldering earth behind them, determined not to panic just yet. The captains would recover from their error in judgement, and just as his men had done before, he saw the column of riders split as the flames flew forth.

It was coincidence, or it was the lizard grown wiser already, but this time the stream of fire caught the rear of one division. Above the crackle of fire and the screeching noise of the lizard’s mouth, Fingon could hear cries of horses and men.

Two horses hastened away riderless from the smoke that followed. One had a reddened flank, Fingon could see, and as the wind carried the thickest smoke away, he could see dark shapes against the ground now.

Infuriated, he urged his own steed forward, readying an arrow. But in his haste he forgot the beast’s tail. It had been drawn back, but it whipped around, the end just past Fingon’s back. Slamming into his horse’s neck, it imbalanced both of them, and Fingon was just able to jump clear of his steed before it fell, though he still hit the ground hard.

Momentarily, it took the wind out of him, and he lay stunned and facedown on the charred ground. It was a splash of mud from rushing hooves that brought his mind back into focus, however, and Fingon rolled back onto his feet. The arrow had snapped in his fall, but he had enough of those to spare, and mercifully, his bow was intact a few paces away.

He paused after picking it up, taking a deep breath. They were disorganised, the original scheme had failed—but they could still bring this back. An idea was even forming in his mind; all he needed was to get back on his horse and spread his signal.

* * *

 “You went out purposefully hunting this beast, and did not mention it to me.” Fingolfin had folded his arms across his chest, and his fingers were tapping against the tops of his arms where they crossed. It was a behavior of Fingon’s that he was always trying to correct, but Fingon could see where he had picked up the habit from.

“I went out purposefully defending our country, as you commanded,” Fingon corrected. “Which entailed facing it before it burnt every farm from here to Nevrast.”

“That is…” Fingolfin chewed on his lip.

“You can’t call it treason when I essentially saved your life.”

“I wasn’t going to call it treason, Findekáno. I was going to compliment your judgement, in fact.”

“What stopped you?”

“You’ve half a story left to tell.”

* * *

 

By this point, there could not have been less than a hundred arrows protruding from the lizard’s hide. Clustered in the gaps between its legs and body, on its toes, and in the skin around its eyes, it was beginning to resemble patches of fur.

Fingon still did not have a horse.

He  _did_  have the lizard’s attention, though, and he intended to use that to his advantage for as long as he could.

With each breath of fire, the creature seemed to grow a bit weaker, and that had allowed Fingon to creep closer and closer until he stood next to its jaws. It snapped at him, and raised its clawed toes in an attempt to slash and rend, but the elf was too quick, darting between its legs and beneath its neck to avoid its attacks.

Around him he could still hear the thunder of hoofbeats, and the occasional shower of arrows would send him ducking for cover. Two lines of cavalry spiraled around and around, in opposite directions, and the beast was left to lash out while defending itself from the bite of Fingon’s sword. It was weakening quickly—black blood ran from its wounds, and its roaring sounded more and more strained by the minute.

Somewhere out on the field, someone shouted. “ _Ñolofinwë!_ ”

At their cry, Fingon darted out, his sword raised. “Admit your defeat,  _urko_. You are more full of pinions than any bird save the King of Eagles.”

At that, the beast turned, and leveled its gaze. Though its eyes were yellow and terrible, there was still a glimmer of intelligence in them, and Fingon swallowed, finding his feet rooted to the spot.

For a second he thought it would try and speak to him. But there was a now familiar glow of red as the lizard’s head raised, and he barely had enough time to throw himself out of the way and raise his arm in front of his face before a column of fire shot out, licking at his armour.

His cry wasn’t meant as a signal, but another hundred arrows sailed overhead with it, and then the lizard was the one who screamed. It moved back on its haunches, then sprang forward with an enormous leap, scattering a number of horsemen as it broke through their lines.

It was twenty paces away before Fingon realised what was happening. “Pursue it! Follow it! _Go!_ ” The beast was staggering away, still remarkably quickly for how many injuries it had sustained, but enough riders could still catch up and finish it before it could find someplace to hide.

A few broke away to follow his command, but others surged forward to help him to his feet.

“You did it, Your Highness!” one of the younger guards exclaimed as he knelt to offer assistance, reaching to steady Fingon’s hand as he attempted to sheathe his sword. “You drove it back!”

_Idiot. I meant to kill it, not send it on to terrorise a new stretch of land._

But it had run north, not south or west. Maybe that meant it was going to crawl home to die in a dark corner of Angband—and let it rot there!

Despite his misgivings, Fingon still smiled when a cheer went up among the men who remained, willing for the moment to ignore their reluctance to follow the dying beast. They had fallen friends to tend to here, at any rate, the wounded and the deadalike.

His hand rose and clutched his shoulder. It was starting to sting uncomfortably, and the metal was hot beneath his riding-glove. “We need to gather the horses. Leave room for the wounded to ride. I’ll need a scout to send word ahead…”

* * *

 

“So it is dead?” Fingolfin looked unconvinced, and Fingon mirrored that look when he answered.

“We assume so. It was weak and wounded, and there has been no word of it since, save from those of you who saw it running across Ard-galen.”

Fingolfin sighed. “Let us hope it does not return. We will have enough difficulty with the legions of orcs and wolves without fire-breathers in their ranks.”

“There will still be balrogs,” Fingon reminded him.

Fingolfin’s face darkened. “I know it.”

Was he thinking of his departed half-brother? Fingon chose not to comment on it. “I think we may have some respite now, whatever the case. And I need it.” He tilted his head back against his pillow.

“Indeed you do. Here.” The High King had filled a glass of wine, and he passed it to his son. “This should help you relax. I have more questions for you, but they can wait.” His gaze flickered to the healer very briefly, but Fingon inclined his head, understanding the message.  

“Atar?” he asked a moment later.

“Yes?”

“Did I do well?”

“You did very well. I  _am_  proud, you know.” 


End file.
